The next night we went hunting over in the Nantahala River section; as always we took every dog we owned. It was warm and damp.
"Shaw," Reek said, "coons'll be a'travelin."
"You seem fidgety," Dad said to me.
"I just hope Speck will at least follow the pack," I said.
"He don't look much like a hunter." Dad's face got grim. "If he won't hunt we'll have to leave him at home."
We parked a little after dark on the rim that overlooked the gorge. I lit my pine-knot torch to give Reek enough light to get his old railroad lantern going. Dad had a big five-cell flashlight, but we only used it to spot a coon in a tree.
"Hyar! Hyar!" Dad called the dogs to him. He didn't want them to smell the coal oil Reek always spilled when he tried to fill the lantern.
"I hope my dog don't fall off one of them cliffs," I said to Reek.
"Shaw. Shaw. Dogs are born to run things. They wouldn't have it no other way."
We followed the narrow trail past the cliffs. The sound of the roaring river below made it scary, but my torch cast a good light, it being fresh and all. Besides, it wasn't these cliffs where the dog got killed. Anyway, they were safe as long as they weren't running on a hot track.
An hour later we came to some flat woods. My torch was dim as a match. A saw-briar wrapped around my head and dang near tore my left ear off. The blood running down my neck felt like a lot. When I put my hand on it, it had done and clotted. I was still rubbing my ear when I caught up with Dad and the dogs in a low gap leading to a fair-sized hollow.
The dogs stayed under our feet--to catch their breath like I did. Speck was out a ways by himself; he held his head high in the air.
"I believe Speck has winded something," Dad said.
"Shaw. Yes." Reek stood still as a fence post, the way he always did when he listened or watched.
"Must be a bear or wildcat," Dad whispered. "Got to be a real strong scent."
Speck leapt out of sight. The other dogs took off after him. It was quiet as they tried to straighten out the trail. Dad and Reek stood so still a body couldn't tell they were breathing. Only the flicker of the lantern broke the still of the dark, damp night.
"That Speck dog's barkin treed," Dad said, soon as he heard the first barks from way down in the hollow.
Nobody moved a muscle. "Shaw. Shaw. I believe your right. I know all the others' voices." Dad took off in a lope; Reek and I followed as best we could.
"Shaw," Reek muttered. "How he can see in this pitch dark without a light is a puzzlement."
When we reached Dad, Speck was at the foot of a big beech tree. He jumped and barked with every breath--never took his eyes off the top limbs. Soon, the other dogs caught up and joined in.
"What do you think, Reek?" Dad asked.
"Shaw. Let's believe in him til he gives us cause to doubt."